“Why, I suppose there’s no immediate hurry?”
said the parson, remembering that the new suit of
clothes must be procured.

“Oh, but there is. Kilcullen will be there
at once; and considering how long it is since I saw
Fanny—­three months, I believe—­no
time should be lost.”

“How long is her brother dead?”

“Oh, a month—­or very near it.”

“Well, I’ll go Monday fortnight; that’ll
do, won’t it?”

It was at last agreed that the parson was to start
for Grey Abbey on the Monday week following; that
he was to mention to no one where he was going; that
he was to tell his wife that he was going on business
he was not allowed to talk about;—­she would
be a very meek woman if she rested satisfied with
that!—­and that he was to present himself
at Grey Abbey on the following Wednesday.

“And now,” said the parson, with some
little hesitation, “my difficulty commences.
We country rectors are never rich; but when we’ve
nine children, Ballindine, it’s rare to find
us with money in our pockets. You must advance
me a little cash for the emergencies of the road.”

“My dear fellow! Of course the expense
must be my own. I’ll send you down a note
between this and then; I haven’t enough about
me now. Or, stay—­I’ll give you
a cheque,” and he turned into the house, and
wrote him a cheque for twenty pounds.

That’ll get the coat into the bargain, thought
the rector, as he rather uncomfortably shuffled the
bit of paper into his pocket. He had still a
gentleman’s dislike to be paid for his services.
But then, Necessity—­how stern she is!
He literally could not have gone without it.

XXVII. MR LYNCH’S LAST RESOURCE

On the following morning Lord Ballindine as he had
appointed to do, drove over to Dunmore, to settle
with Martin about the money, and, if necessary, to
go with him to the attorney’s office in Tuam.
Martin had as yet given Daly no answer respecting
Barry Lynch’s last proposal; and though poor
Anty’s health made it hardly necessary that any
answer should be given, still Lord Ballindine had
promised to see the attorney, if Martin thought it
necessary.

The family were all in great confusion that morning,
for Anty was very bad—­worse than she had
ever been. She was in a paroxysm of fever, was
raving in delirium, and in such a state that Martin
and his sister were occasionally obliged to hold her
in bed. Sally, the old servant, had been in the
room for a considerable time during the morning, standing
at the foot of the bed with a big tea-pot in her hand,
and begging in a whining voice, from time to time,
that “Miss Anty, God bless her, might get a
dhrink of tay!” But, as she had been of no other
service, and as the widow thought it as well that
she should not hear what Anty said in her raving,
she had been desired to go down-stairs, and was sitting
over the fire. She had fixed the big tea-pot among
the embers, and held a slop-bowl of tea in her lap,
discoursing to Nelly, who with her hair somewhat more
than ordinarily dishevelled, in token of grief for
Anty’s illness, was seated on a low stool, nursing
a candle-stick.